


Heaven Help Me

by momentsintimex



Series: Everything Happens [2]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Cemetery, Gen, Grieving, Guilt, Letters, i'm sorry about this one too, part two of the sad letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentsintimex/pseuds/momentsintimex
Summary: The thing is, Larry has never been good with words. He’s never said the right things to his kids. Comforting them felt like an alien concept, even when they were 4 and 5 and didn’t care what he was saying, they just wanted to be held. He thinks he’s always wanted to be that parent, the one who’s kids ran to them when they had a scary dream, or when they thought there were monsters under their bed. He just… never turned out to be like that.He couldn’t even protect his daughter from her older brother. He had failed that — the simplest of things.But now he stares down at the headstone that has his son’s name etched into it. Staring at the grass as if it’s going to start growing right before his eyes, covering the dirt that serves as an all-too real reminder that it’s only been weeks since they buried him. And he knows he needs to say something to Connor. Something to make the quiet stop.He just… he doesn’t know what to say.





	Heaven Help Me

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Heaven Help Me" by Dave Barnes
> 
> no TW that i can think of, but please let me know if i missed one!

There's a lot of things that Larry had thought about growing up that he wanted to accomplish in his life. Have a good job, be happy, marry the love of his life, have children, grow old.

Burying his child wasn’t one of those things.

He thinks he could read a million articles about how to grieve the loss of a child. How to properly deal with the range of emotions that come with it. Will he always have this gaping hole in his chest? Does it ever really feel better? How does he help the rest of his family through this?

He doesn’t think he’s going to find a single article on how to deal with the loss of a child who you spent a better part of the last three years fighting with. A child who, despite no matter how hard he tried, he never understood.

He had been at a business dinner when Cynthia called him. He ignored it at first. Figuring maybe she forgot. He went to shoot her a quick text, let her know that he had this dinner, that he wouldn’t be home until late and they could talk about whatever happened then. He figured it was probably something to do with school. Or signing forms for the kids. Or something Connor had done. Or… really anything, honestly.

But she called again.

And he excused himself from the table, answering this time.

“Connor is missing.” She doesn’t even say hello. She’s frantic. Speaking a mile a minute. Shuffling through things on the other line. “Connor never came home from school and I don’t know where he is and I don’t know what to do or how to find him. I know you’re at this dinner but Larry, our son is _missing_.”

Larry takes a deep breath. Paces the sidewalk outside of the restaurant. And shoves his hand into his pocket. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Just… call the police. Let them know that he’s missing.”

“They’re not going to help. He’s 17. We’re going to have to wait 24 hours.”

“Cynthia,” Larry sighs. Exaggerates. “We have to try. Just call. I’ll be home soon.”

He hangs up after a quick goodbye. Walks back into the restaurant. And grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. “I’m so sorry to leave like this, but I have a family emergency.”

He slams down some money and walks out before they can say anything else. His food is left untouched in his spot.

The minutes had turned into hours of looking for Connor. Police had been mostly unhelpful. Saying that they couldn’t do anything, that hey needed to wait until later that night to report him. He’s just a runaway, they had said, that until it’s been longer they can’t waste their time looking for him.

Larry had threatened to go down to the police station and yell at them. Cynthia had stopped him. Grabbed his arm. And tried to calm herself down. “If they won’t look for him, I will. And we’re going to separate and look through every single place he may be. Because we need to find him, Larry. I need him home. Tonight. I am not sleeping or eating or doing anything until our child is back here. Safe.”

Larry nods. Watches as his wife rushes out of the house with him following not long after. Turning his car back on. Driving towards the orchard that had closed down years ago. It’s the only place that came to his mind when he thought about where his son would be.

He hates that he doesn’t know him better. Doesn’t even know where to start looking.

It occurs to him that they didn’t tell Zoe they were leaving until he’s pulling into the abandoned parking lot of the orchard. He doesn’t send her a quick text. He just… gets out of the car. And walks through a few rows of the orchard before deciding he wasn’t there.

Cynthia calls him when he’s almost back at the car. Screaming. Sobbing. Her words are unintelligible. But. He knows she found him. And he knows it’s not good.

He meets her at the hospital, letting her collapse in his arms in the emergency room, where people were looking. “It’s okay, it’s fine. He’s with the doctors. They’ll do what they can,” He mumbled. He didn’t believe himself.

“It’s not okay,” Cynthia says, heaving. “He was barely breathing, Larry. He didn’t… he didn’t respond to me! He didn’t answer!” And she sobbed into his chest again, weakly pounding against his sweater. And he held her until she gave up and wrapped her arms around her, trying not to cry himself. His wife needed him to be the strong one right now.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget standing at his son’s bedside in the hospital as he took his last breaths. His wife’s hysterical sobs. The machines working for his son. Until they didn’t. Until they just stopped. And the doctor called his time of death.

He numbly signed release forms. Sat next to his wife in a doctor’s office while they talked through the next steps. They were handed packets about grief counselors. How to properly bury your child. He wanted to throw them all in the trash. Live in total denial that this was happening, that his son had just died with him right there and there was nothing he could do or even tried to do to stop it.

This wasn’t like the time when Connor was 8 and was hit in the head at baseball. The two of them had to spend six hours in the emergency room back then, and Connor received 6 stitches in his chin while also being monitored for a concussion. Back then they had played enough I Spy that Larry felt like he was going crazy, ate four popsicles while they laid in the emergency room hospital bed together, and Larry comforted him. Held him close. Promised him that he wouldn’t let this happen again, let him get hurt like this again.

And yet. He had just watched him die. And didn’t do anything to stop it. He didn’t do anything to… prevent this.

If someone asked him to write a book on how to plan for your child’s funeral, the process, how you grieve and make plans while your child — who was supposed to outlive you — is gone, he doesn’t think he could do it. He spent most of the week in between his son’s death and the funeral itself in a state of shock. Going through the motions. Agreeing with whatever his wife had decided.

He and Cynthia had fought over everything. It seemed like every time he opened his mouth it ended in a fight. They fought about the order of Connor’s funeral, where he should be buried, what the headstone should say. They fought over Connor himself. How this could’ve happened. How they didn’t notice the signs.

And he continued to sit in denial over it. Denial that this was their fault, that their son didn’t kill himself just because of things that were happening with him, and not because they didn’t help him. He knows deep down there’s a million other things that they could’ve done for Connor, but. They didn’t. And now that was something he was going to have to process and live with for the rest of his life.

He went back to work three days after the funeral. Ignored the sympathetic smiles and the sympathy cards laying on his desk. An obligation from his colleagues, he felt. Like they felt like they had to acknowledge it. Had to say something.

He wished they didn’t. He wished they just… acted like nothing happened. It’s awful, he knows. His son just died, he just buried him, and. He just wishes they could move past it. Act like it wasn’t there. So he shoved the cards into his briefcase, and figured maybe one day he’d be able to stomach looking at them.

Home life got worse. He spent more time at the office. Ate dinner with Cynthia and Zoe just so Zoe had some sort of normal after all of this. And then retreated to the garage until it was close to midnight and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

He had always been going through things out there. Reorganizing, working on little projects. His last project had been a bookshelf for Connor. As an attempt to like, mend things or whatever. He didn’t think it would work. He was doing it because Cynthia said maybe it was a good place to start.

He didn’t finish them. He had put them off. Told himself that he had time to work on them later. That the project he had been working on for Zoe’s birthday was more important.

And now Connor was gone. And he never was going to get that bookshelf. He never was going to get to mend the relationship he had ruined with his son. And that… hurt a lot more than he thought it would.

He had been hiding a pack of cigarettes in his toolbox for months. He quit years ago, back when he found out Cynthia was pregnant with Connor. As a promise that he was going to do better, that he wasn’t going to put his kids in harms way and smoke around them. He wanted to be able to keep up with them, and so he just… quit. Cold turkey. And never looked back.

He picked the habit back up recreationally when Connor started taking a turn. More as a stress relief than anything, because he didn’t know what else to do and nothing was working with Connor and so he just figured maybe a cigarette would take the edge off, let him think a little more clearly on what he should do to help his son.

He hadn't smoked since Connor died, ironically. He thought if there was any week he should’ve smoked until his chest ached and his throat burned, this would’ve been it. But he didn’t. Until now.

He helped his wife clean up the kitchen, and then walked to the garage, just like he did every other night.

He told himself one cigarette was fine. That he needed it, it would help him calm down right now when everything was swirling around in his mind and his son was dead and he just… didn’t know what else to do.

He walks over to his toolbox, fishing for his lighter in his coat pocket, and pauses when he opens the box to find an unopened pack of cigarettes with a letter underneath.

_Dad._

It was written on the envelope. Messy handwriting, small, not in a straight line. It definitely wasn’t Zoe’s handwriting. It wasn’t his little girl’s handwriting and the only other person that called him Dad was Connor, but. This couldn’t be from him. Larry tried to pretend like maybe he didn’t see it. Maybe he was hallucinating or maybe this wasn’t even meant for him. Like this was all some weird dream.

He knew he had seen it. That this wasn’t a dream or fake or anything else. That… that this was a note from his son. Who was dead. And he didn’t have a good relationship with.

He grabs the letter, shoves the cigarettes into his pocket, and walks to sit down in the chair off in the corner.

He doesn’t know if right now is a good time to read it. His throat itches for a cigarette. For the feeling of the smoke filling his lungs, the release and relaxation that it gives him. But. He doesn’t think he can wait and wonder what the note says. If it’s really from Connor. How long it had been there.

So, he forgets momentarily about the cigarettes in his pocket, unopened and brand new as if he had just bought them that morning — which he didn’t — and opens the letter before he can second guess himself.

_Hey Dad,_

_This is probably weird, right? Like I’m sure you’ve never really thought about me writing you a letter like this before. Especially because we don’t get along. We haven’t for a long time._

_I’m probably dead when you’re reading this. I’m sorry for that. I just couldn’t do it anymore. You probably don’t understand and I don’t really expect you to. I just needed to get away. I needed to let myself go, let myself stop hurting._

_This wasn’t your fault or mom’s fault or really anyone’s fault. I’ve had this planned for a long time, I just think I’m finally going to have the courage to really follow through with it tomorrow. Not like the last few times when I didn’t try hard enough to kill myself. I’m going to do enough tomorrow._

_I don’t blame you for how you treated me. I don’t blame you for thinking that you thought I was doing it for attention. I wish that you would’ve given me more of a chance to do therapy and try to get better so I could’ve stopped hurting you guys as much as I did. But I don’t blame you for anything you did. We both could’ve done things better probably. I mean maybe you more than me. But I don’t want to put all the blame on you._

_I got you a new pack of cigarettes. I used to steal yours. I came in here to find money for weed one day and found your cigarettes. So if you noticed them getting lower without you smoking them, that’s why. I figured the least I could do since I’m about to put you through all of this. Just maybe don’t smoke them all at once? Mom hates it. Just so you know. I’m sure you’ve fought about it. But she hates that you smoke still even though you hide it. She knows everything. You can’t get it past her._

_I don’t blame you for how you treated me and I won’t blame you if you don’t care that I’m gone. I think I’d feel the same way. I think I’d be mad that my son did this too, especially after all the times I said I hated you. You deserve to hate me. I wasn’t a good son. I never would’ve been a good son. This decision is best for all of us._

_I hope that now that I’m gone you and mom and Zoe can be happy. You can be the family that we should’ve been if I wasn’t like this. Maybe talk to someone about getting over this or whatever, but I don’t know. I won’t be mad with however you decide to remember me. I wasn’t a good son to you or to mom. And I wasn’t a good brother to Zoe._

_I hope you can move on from this sooner rather than later. Maybe talk to someone about it if you want. I know you didn’t believe it, but therapy does help. I’m sorry for everything that I put you through. Don’t blame yourself or anyone else. This is what’s best for everyone._

_Your son,_

_Connor._

Larry shoves the note into his pocket. Keeps it there for the next morning. And begins building the rest of Connor’s bookshelf through his tears until Cynthia pokes her head out into the garage to announce that she’s going to bed and not to stay up too late.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night for Larry, and when his alarm goes off that morning he gets up and drags himself through the house getting ready. It’s a normal morning, he thinks, or as normal as it can be. It’s quiet, Zoe eats her breakfast and leaves for school, and Larry kisses his wife and leaves for the office.

He lets his colleagues know he’s going to be in late. And drives to the cemetery.

He’s been back a handful of times, mostly with Cynthia. Once by himself. It haunts him, honestly. Seeing his son’s headstone and knowing that he was buried just below his feet is a terrifying thought, and one that he hadn’t come to terms with.

He wants to say something. Anything. He didn’t just come to the cemetery to stare at his son’s headstone before work and then turn around and leave like he wasn’t even there. The letter in his pocket was a reminder of that.

The thing is, Larry has never been good with words. He’s never said the right things to his kids. Comforting them felt like an alien concept, even when they were 4 and 5 and didn’t care what he was saying, they just wanted to be held. He thinks he’s always wanted to be that parent, the one who’s kids ran to them when they had a scary dream, or when they thought there were monsters under their bed. He just… never turned out to be like that.

He couldn’t even protect his daughter from her older brother. He had failed that — the simplest of things.

But now he stares down at the headstone that has his son’s name etched into it. Staring at the grass as if it’s going to start growing right before his eyes, covering the dirt that serves as an all-too real reminder that it’s only been weeks since they buried him. And he knows he needs to say something to Connor. Something to make the quiet stop.

He just… he doesn’t know what to say.

“Hey, buddy,” He begins. It sounds wrong. “I… found your letter last night. I swear I’ve been in that toolbox since you died, but. Maybe not.”

He takes a deep breath. Hates that he doesn’t know what to say to his son who isn’t going to answer back because he’s dead and they buried him and it’s all his fault. It’s his fault this is even happening.

“Connor, I wasn’t a good dad to you, okay? I just wasn’t. And there’s a million things I could say right now to try to fix that, to try to make that not the case. But nothing that I say is going to bring you back.” He breathes. “Nothing I say right now is going to magically place you back in front of me. I can’t… I can’t ever make this situation better because there is nothing I can do.”

“I’m sorry for how I treated you.” The apology feels weird. Makes his tongue sting and his throat burn. “I’m sorry that I… that I hurt you the way that I did. That I pulled you out of therapy and I shipped you off to rehab when you tried the second time. I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you or your mother or any doctors about what was going on with you, and I just said that you were doing it all for attention.”

“I just don't understand what more your mother and I could’ve done for you,” He says. Living in denial. He knows. “I mean, we gave you everything. We gave you the world, Connor. Everything you could’ve ever wanted. And you just… you threw it away and I didn’t know what else to do. You fought therapy, you came back from rehab and hated us. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.” He sighs. Knows he’s wrong in this. Knows that pulling him out of rehab wasn’t the answer. Saying no to medications wasn’t the answer. He just. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about what else was going on.

He’s crying. His eyes are blurred, but he doesn’t wipe them. He deserves this, he thinks. He deserves to cry and be pissed off and be begging for forgiveness at his son’s grave because maybe if he would’ve just listened to his son or his wife or literally anyone… maybe Connor would still be here. And they could fix this right now. He could’ve been a better dad, he could’ve changed some of the things that he didn’t do when Connor was alive and his wife had begged him to get their son help.

“Connor, I miss you.” His chest aches. He struggles to take a breath. He feels like he’s choking. “I miss you more than I ever thought I would, which is not what a father should say to their son’s grave. I should’ve started missing you the moment we found out you died. I should’ve… I should’ve felt like this earlier. And I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I’ve been sitting here in denial that you needed more than what we did for you and what we gave you, and this isn’t your fault at all.”

He bends down, running his hands over the granite that he and Cynthia had chosen. Or he had agreed to. Let’s it sting his hand from the cold morning air, etch into his fingerprints as if he had just burned himself. Like he’ll always feel the way his son’s headstone feels when he touches his hand anywhere. He squeezes around the top, acts like it’s his son’s shoulder he’s squeezing. Like somehow this would fix everything and his son would magically come back from the dead.

“I have to go to work,” He breathes. And checks his phone, seeing he has a few texts and emails for the day. Then laughs to himself, because Connor hated when he was on his phone when he was supposed to be paying attention to them and they had gotten into plenty of fights over this exact issue. “I think I’m going to come back here more. I think… I think maybe it would be good. For both of us. Or I guess maybe more me than anything. Since…” He trails off. Larry knows what he should’ve said. He thinks if Connor is listening he knows what the rest of that sentence is.

He almost feels like he’s waiting for Connor to answer back. Waiting for him to say something smart, something he’d normally yell at him for. He doesn’t think he’d yell at him if that were to happen today. He thinks… he thinks maybe he could be a lot more patient. He also knows it’s a lot easier to say that now that none of this will ever come true. That he will never see his son alive again, that there won’t be another fight. There won’t be another chance for him to be patient with his son, to listen to him and understand what he’s going through and maybe even help him.

“I’ll see you soon, kiddo. Keep sending your mom and I signs, okay? Maybe even send Zoe some. I think she misses you more than she’s letting on.” He takes another deep breath. “We miss you, Connor. And I’m sorry that I didn’t do enough.”

In a completely unnatural motion Larry kisses his palm. And rests it against his son’s headstone.

He makes the walk back to his car just as the sun properly begins to come up, when traffic begins to pick up and everyone is on their way to work and school. He spends the car ride to his office listening to the Rolling Stones because it’s the one band Larry knows his son liked and he feels like maybe it’ll make him feel better. Maybe it’ll make him feel less guilty. Make him feel closer to Connor in some odd way.

It doesn’t.

He gets settled into his desk after saying hello to the people already in the office for the day, writing a few things down, getting things set out for the day. And then he glances at his phone. Thinks about his morning. And decides to text his wife.

_Let’s look into family therapy tonight when I get home. Maybe it would be good for the three of us to go._

Larry sets his phone down on his desk. Opens his laptop. And stares at the picture of Connor in the frame on his desk, right next to Zoe’s picture, for far too long.

Maybe somehow this would be okay. Maybe this would all get easier. Maybe one day he’d be able to stop blaming himself for what happened.

He just wishes he said something before it was too late.

**Author's Note:**

> the second of three letters! 
> 
> i'm sorry for the sadness of these but it's oddly therapeutic to write these omg.
> 
> my hope was to have Cynthia's up this weekend, but i'll be away for the weekend so it'll be up at some point next week :) 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr if you'd like! for-f0rever.tumblr.com 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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